Blaine Anderson's Guide to (Accidental) Fame and Fortune
by Das War Schon Kaputt
Summary: Blaine stumbles into fame and fortune with about the same amount of grace that anyone stumbles into anything. That is to say, none at all.
1. It's All Trent's Fault, Anyway

_I have an unhealthy obsession with famous!blaine. It needs to stop. That is all._

* * *

**Blaine Anderson's Guide to (Accidental) Fame and Fortune**

* * *

There's one thing Blaine would like to make perfectly clear: he never intended for any of this to happen.

It just _did._

And it's all Trent's fault, anyway.

* * *

**Rule One: Make A Splash**

_People always talk about opportunities falling into Blaine's lap. Blaine would like to clarify that most of the time, he's the one falling into other people's laps._

* * *

The thing about the Warblers is – as Wes takes great pleasure in pointing out on a near daily basis – that they're pretty much all unabashed Blaine-fanboys. Heck, half of Dalton treats Blaine like he's the coolest new thing since liquid nitrogen.

He really is _all that._

It's not like he actively tries to dissuade the hero-worship either – as far as he's concerned, people can like what they want to like, and if that's him, power to them – so maybe he kind of had it coming.

Still, going to sleep one night thoroughly mortified over a failed attempt at wooing a closeted Gap employee has nothing on waking up to discover that said failed attempt has been posted all over the internet.

"I am so, so, so sorry," Trent repeats for like, the third time already, eyes wide. "I swear I had no idea my sister was going to post it online, Blaine."

Part of Blaine wants to take Trent by the ear and show him the exact section of their ICT lesson notes that warns against this kind of thing, but that part is currently warring with the rest of him, which simply wants to curl up and _die._

Blaine fastens his tie-knot aggressively. "Don't worry about it," he grits out.

"Are you sure?" Trent asks uncertainly. "Because I talked to her about taking it down, but it's kind of already gone viral, and—"

"Don't worry about it," Blaine repeats, but then his brain catches up. "Wait," he says, turning abruptly on the spot, the rest of his uniform forgotten. "Did you just say _viral_?"

Trent laughs nervously.

* * *

What.

1,200,769 views.

1,200,769 views in just under three hours.

The video, neatly titled _Blazer Boy Serenades Valentine in Gap, _already has over one million views and Blaine feels faint.

Because it's not just his close friends in the Warblers who have witnessed his humiliation – it's one million other _complete strangers. _And, fuck, you can see his face pretty clearly in the video, so there's no playing this off as some other raven-haired show-choir soloist.

People start to stare at him in the hallways between classes – at least that's what it feels like – and he keeps having to stop and check himself, thinking, _god have I spilt my lunch down my front or something?_

He's used to the spotlight, but not like this.

Blaine briefly entertains the idea of a painless death, before he remembers that he has a lab report due after lunch.

* * *

**_From: _**_Coop_  
**To: **Blaine  
Saw the video. Not bad, little bro, but you know how you could have improved it?

**_From: _**_Blaine_  
**To: **Coop  
Cooper, not now.

**_From: _**_Coop_  
**To: **Blaine  
You could have pointed - at him.

**_From: _**_Blaine_  
**To: **Coop  
Cooper, seriously, not now.

* * *

Fuck the show choir blogs. Fuck 'em all.

It took about three hours after the video went viral for _Mid-West Show Choir Official _and _Show Choir National _to come across it and stamp Blaine's name and show choir all over every major social networking site – from Twitter to freakin' _Myspace. _He even has a shiny new Wikipedia page. A _Wikipedia page._

Blaine got out of last period chem to discover that his name was trending all over the blogosphere – that someone had managed to track down the Warblers' YouTube channel and had turned them into the fifteenth most subscribed to channel on the site. His Facebook has been inundated with friend requests, his Twitter following is through the roof and his school picture – the one he _never wanted anyone else to see ever _– is _everywhere._

And, looking at the veritable storm of popularity, all Blaine can think is: _don't these people have anything better to do?_

Wes and David – to no one's surprise – find this entire ordeal hilarious. Blaine already has over twenty different new nicknames from them, all varying on the theme of _Superstar _and _Loverboy _and _Neo-Bieber, _and they're refusing to let it rest. Blaine can't wait until the internet gets over the fact that his Valentine's Day Humiliation is apparently so gripping as to be the latest 'cool new thing' to anybody with an Ethernet cable and a computer.

Blaine learns very quickly not to read the comments section – God, yes, people, he's gay! He's serenading a guy for crying out loud, how much more obvious do you need it to be?! – and gives up after his third time of trying to get Trent's sister to take down the video.

Screw it all, he thinks as he collapses on his dorm bed that night. Face buried in his pillow, Blaine wonders if this week can possibly get any worse.

It gets worse.

* * *

Being a student at boarding school is normally a pretty good indicator of having absent parents and Blaine's case is no exception to this rule. Claire and Johnathon Anderson are affectionate – and, at times, supportive – but distant. They call once a week, always making sure to ask after his grades and friends, talk a bit about their work, then hang up and go do whatever else.

Which is why it doesn't surprise Blaine one bit that neither his mother nor his father are aware of the trivial fact that their son has recently become an unwilling internet celebrity. It's not like they have Blaine's name on Google Alerts, or anything, and it's not like they interact with anyone who's likely to have seen the video, so Blaine is in the clear as far as that's concerned.

In all honesty, though, Blaine's not at all certain how they would react to the news. Fame and fortune were never even on the radar for Blaine, especially not after his older brother cut out on the family to go an make his mark on Los Angeles, only coming home when he needed more money. Blaine's plan was always graduation, Ivy League, and then inheriting the family business from his father when the time is right.

It's the plan for Blaine. Ever since Cooper decided he was going to become an actor, it's been the only plan for Blaine.

And Blaine is kind of okay with that.

There really is only one problem with the fact that his parents don't know that Blaine's view count is right up there with _Charlie Bit My Finger _on the logarithmic scale of YouTube sensationalism and that is that said parents won't just accept Blaine's feeble excuse when he tells them that he doesn't feel up to playing Happy Families at the big charity benefit that they're attending on Friday night.

And so Blaine ends up dressed in a suit worth more than his life, hair gelled severely into submission, and wondering just how offensive the other guests would find it if he pulled out his phone and started to text Wes.

He spends the majority of the evening silent at their table, only joining in with conversation when directly spoken to, or when one of his parents starts to casually drop his achievements into the flow of discourse – _Blaine here has a 4.0 GPA, and he's on the Dalton fencing team. Well, yes, of course we're proud. He takes after his father, doesn't he? _– and the pitiful remainder of it turning down invitations from girls his age to dance.

It takes about half an hour for his parents to clue in on the fact that something's not quite right in the world of Blaine. After that, Blaine's father spends some time frowning at him and his mother keeps shooting him weird looks. Blaine just sighs. He doesn't really feel like performing in any form tonight.

"Blaine," Claire Anderson eventually says, and Blaine waits for it, prepares his response – _I'm fine, Mom, just tired _– but the expected question never comes. "Why don't you go dance?"

Okay. Message received. His moping is kind of cramping their style.

Blaine forces a smile to his face, knowing all the while that it must come out like a grimace. "I'm actually not feeling to great, Mom," he says. "I think I'm going to go and get some water from the bar. Can I get you anything?"

Claire just waves him off casually, and once more, Blaine gets the message. Right. Dismissed.

Blaine pushes back his chair and pushes himself to his feet, stumbling slightly. He chances one last look back at his mother – who has already turned back to her conversation with one of the other trophy wives – before he turns around and makes his way in the direction of the bar.

Now, Blaine's actually pretty coordinated. He's on Dalton's fencing team, after all, and it's kind of fatal if you end up falling off the platform in the middle of a match. The thing which most people don't know is that his coordination is _learned. _It doesn't come naturally to him.

So when he's not paying attention to what his feet are doing, well, things tend to happen that end with Blaine face-down on the ground, a bruise the size of an egg on his head, and a bout of laughter from any eye-witnesses that makes him flush bright red through the pain.

And right then, Blaine isn't paying attention to what his feet are doing.

Which is how he ends up tripping over a pair of out-stretched feet and face-planting straight into someone's lap.

It takes all of ten seconds – ten _long, awkward_ seconds – for him to realise what has happened and push himself up and out of the other person's lap. Blaine can feel his face heating up and the tips of his ears going pink as he blurts out an apology of half-formed incoherent sounds. _Please don't be one of Dad's clients, please don't be one of Dad's clients, please don't be—_

The man in front of Blaine – somehow, it being a man just makes this all so much _worse _– is very well put-together. What Blaine means is, sure, that's kind of a prerequisite for these types of events, but there's something very _polished _about the man in front of him, who's raising a challenging eyebrow as Blaine mumbles his way through his apology.

Blaine gets the distinct impression that he secretly finds this hilarious.

The good news, though, is that this isn't one of Blaine's father's clients. Blaine doesn't actually know who this man is.

The bad news is…

Well, the man knows _exactly _who Blaine is.

"Wait a second," the man interrupts Blaine half-way through his thirteenth 'sorry'.

Blaine closes his eyes and _prays._

"Are you Blaine Anderson?"

_Screw you, God._

Blaine forces himself to smile. "Yes," he says, already cringing in anticipation of where this conversation is heading.

"I'm Jesse St James," the man introduces himself, smiling wildly. "Do you have a minute to talk?"

"Look," Blaine says, previous attempts at an apology forgotten, "if this is to do with the YouTube video, I'd really rather not talk about it, okay? The whole thing is _really _embarrassing for me and I'm—"

"It's not about the video," Jesse interrupts quickly, but pauses. "Well, I guess _technically, _it is, but I think you're going to want to listen anyway."

Blaine raises his eyebrows doubtfully, but allows himself to be guided over to a free chair at Jesse's table.

"I have…" Jesse pauses, as if considering the best way to phrase the next part of his speech. "A business proposition for you."

Given that Blaine has had his face in this man's crotch, he _really_ doesn't like where this seems to be going.

"So, Blaine Anderson," Jesse says, leaning back in his chair, "what would you do if I told you I thought you were going to be the next big thing?"

Jesse must spot the look on Blaine's face, because he adds, "Hypothetically of course."


	2. Not A No (Yet)

**Chapter Two  
Not A No (Yet)**

"I have…" Jesse pauses, as if considering the best way to phrase the next part of his speech. "A business proposition for you."

Given that Blaine has had his face in this man's crotch, he _really_ doesn't like where this seems to be going.

"So, Blaine Anderson," Jesse says, leaning back in his chair, "what would you do if I told you I thought you were going to be the next big thing?"

Jesse must spot the look on Blaine's face, because he adds, "Hypothetically of course."

* * *

**Rule Two: Go All In**

_Going all in is a phenomenally good route to either a sweeping victory or a crushing defeat. The only problem is, well, Blaine has always sucked at poker._

* * *

"You did _what_?"

It's been three days since Blaine attended the benefit with his parents. Three days since Jesse St. James offered to change his life. Three days since—

"I said no," Blaine repeats, massaging his temples.

Wes and David crashed into his room ten minutes ago, demanding to know who had knotted his underwear – "So you going to tell us who pissed in your cornflakes, or what?" was Wes's chosen interrogatory phrase – and have spent the time since listening as Blaine filled them in on what happened at the fundraiser.

They're decidedly – and admittedly unsurprisingly – unsympathetic to his cause.

Wes and David share a brief look before Wes reaches out and unceremoniously clouts Blaine around the ear.

"Ow!" Blaine cries, hand flying to his ear. "What the hell, guys?"

"You're an idiot," David tells Blaine flatly. "A real, honest-to-God idiot."

"Yeah," Wes joins in. "All you've wanted to do – all you've _ever _wanted to do, Blaine – is perform. Ask anyone of us and we all know that you're happiest when you're belting out a song, or jumping all over the furniture, or just in front of an audience in general."

"And then this St. James guy," David continues on seamlessly, "_rocks _up to you at a party, offers you all your hopes and dreams on a silver platter – served with a garnish of _jus d'argent _probably – and what do you do?"

"You say no," Wes finishes.

Blaine feels a headache coming on. It's much more complicated than that, and he kind of just wants Wes and David to just _drop it._

It's a futile wish, Blaine knows, though. Wes and David _never _drop anything when he asks them. It's actually the only reason they're friends, now that Blaine thinks about it. If not for their combined persistence, then Blaine would have most likely settled into his life at Dalton as a hermit and never looked back.

"It was my choice to make," Blaine says, trying to imbue his tone with some kind of affronted quality and hide just how _tired _he is, "and you guys should respect that."

Wes and David share another look, before they both sigh in unison.

"I respect your choice, Blaine, I really do," Wes says softly. "I just want to make sure that you're making your decisions for the right reasons."

Blaine raises an eyebrow. "The wrong reasons being?"

"What you think your father wants," David answers without hesitation. "Blaine, you're seventeen years old; you've got to start living your own life."

Blaine closes his eyes and exhales.

Whilst it's true that he loves performing – can see himself doing it for a lifetime and never growing tired of it – it's simply just not a viable option for Blaine. Even ignoring the risky nature of a career in performing, and casting aside Blaine's own witness accounts as to exactly _why _it's a bad idea, there are plans in place for Blaine's life which don't mesh with a career in the arts.

High school. Ivy league. Anderson Energy.

They're _Blaine's _plans. He's _satisfied _with them.

He doesn't want the other type of future for himself. Endless auditions, non-existent success, barely making rent each month – Cooper's life isn't something Blaine envies in the slightest. If avoiding that requires him to sacrifice the part of him that's tearing him apart inside to say yes – take the risk, give it your all, stop trying to play it safe – then Blaine thinks he can deal with that.

Blaine has always been terrified to his very core by the prospect of failure.

_Coward, _the screaming part of him whispers. Blaine ignores it.

So he shrugs, fiddles with the cuff of his shirt and says, "I am living my own life, guys."

Wes and David share one more look, but finally let it go.

* * *

Things have mostly calmed down on the internet by the time that Blaine heads home the next week. His Twitter following – while still at a stupendous level – has somewhat tempered off, settling at around five-hundred. And, sure, the video's still _everywhere, _but people aren't talking about it as much; YouTube has since moved on to the latest video of a cat dancing to Lady Gaga while dressed up like Stalin.

Blaine's fifteen minutes of fame are up, and it feels more like a relief than anything else.

The reprieve doesn't last long.

Everything starts to fall apart once more almost the second Blaine opens his front door and sees his brother's grinning face and shamelessly bare chest.

"Hey Blainey," Cooper says.

Blaine bites back on a groan.

Frosty is probably the only accurate descriptor for Blaine's relationship with his older brother, Cooper. It makes for some awkward Christmases and Thanksgivings – cool glares above roast potatoes and judgemental eyebrows raises across the living room.

Blaine looks at Cooper and sees his father's perfect son – smart, charismatic, handsome – and everything that he's always going to have to try and be. He sees someone for whom their father's love has always been unconditional, who can screw up again and again and still come home, and then Blaine looks in the mirror and sees his father's face when he got a B in history back at North Westerville High. He looks at Cooper and sees everything he's never let himself want.

It's easy to resent Cooper. _Cooper _makes it easy to resent Cooper.

"Hey Coop," Blaine sighs, as Cooper brushes past him and ruffles his hair.

"Where are Mom and Dad?" Cooper asks, glancing around the empty hall. He's got a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and has yet to let up on his face-splitting smile.

"They're—" Blaine starts, but cuts himself off when his father wanders into the hall.

The change in Johnathon Anderson's face is immediate. The moment he spots Cooper, his mouth twists upwards and he stretches his arms out so that Cooper can crush him into a hug.

Blaine looks away.

* * *

Blaine spends the first half hour of dinner trying to bend his cutlery out of shape and biting down on his tongue. He doesn't know why, but being with Cooper always feels like some sort of competition, and he hates the way his stomach twists as Cooper relays his latest crazy audition story.

Dad's laughing. Dad never laughs like this.

Normally, Blaine supposes, he would at least make an effort not to appear like he hates his brother – which he doesn't, if anyone were wondering, and the fact that he loves Cooper somehow makes their whole relationship feel that much more poisonous – but he's not trying tonight. Blaine feels worn, exhausted, and he can't see the point in fighting the inevitable end to his estranged relationship with his brother.

And that – of course – is when Johnathon Anderson turns to ask Blaine about school. Blaine forces the tired look out of his eyes and the same old smile – always a smile – onto his face.

"It's going well," he says neutrally. "I placed second in the year on my physics investigation."

"That's great sweetie," his mom says and, much like everything these days, it sounds like a dismissal.

"Oh but Blaine," Cooper pipes up from across the table. "Don't you know? There's _no _second place in business."

It's said jovially. A joke. Blaine's dad even laughs. Again.

But to Blaine it's the tipping point.

He's always said he's okay with taking over the business. Cooper's not going to do it, so the job lands on him, and that's okay. Cooper gets to pursue his dreams, shoot for the stars (_and miss, _Blaine adds bitterly) and Blaine gets to look forward to a future of stiff suits and stifling boardroom meetings.

He's okay with that. He can accept that. He's taking one for the team.

But Cooper's remark just feels like he's rubbing the entire situation right in his younger brother's face.

Blaine drops his knife and fork loudly on the table. "Excuse me," he says, voice stilted with forced politeness.

He leaves the room.

* * *

"What was that about?"

Blaine looks up from his sheet music – the latest a cappella masterpiece he's working on for the Warblers – to see his father leant against his doorframe. Blaine slams his file shut and rolls over on his bed.

"It's—nothing, Dad," he deflects.

Johnathon rolls his eyes as he pushes off the doorframe and settles down on the edge of Blaine's bed. "I thought I taught you to lie better than that, Blaine," he tells his son wryly.

Blaine shrugs. "PMS?" he tries, and that gets a laugh.

"If it were PMS," Johnathon says, "we'd be having an _entirely _different conversation. Don't make me get your mother, Blaine, 'fess up."

Blaine raises his eyebrows. "Have you been reading _Seventeen Magazine, _again, Dad?" he asks. "When was the last time _anyone _ever said _'fess up_?"

Johnathon sighs, placing a hand on Blaine's shoulder. "While your deflection work is much better than your lying," he says softly, "it's still not working."

Blaine shifts uncomfortably and shrinks out of his father's grip. "Can't you just drop it, Dad?"

"Kid," Johnathon says, "_just dropping it _isn't in my nature." He sighs and leans back on the wall that Blaine's bed is pushed up against. "Is this about the guy who turned you down on Valentines?" he asks.

All the colour drains from Blaine's face. "You heard about that?" he asks, throat dry.

"Cooper sent me the video almost the second he found it," Johnathon informs him with a shrug. "You're very talented, Blaine. That kid doesn't know what he's missing out on."

"He's not a kid, Dad," Blaine says. "He's older than me."

"He's also blind, an idiot, and being mocked across the internet for not jumping you there and then," Johnathon replies with a shrug. "Mortifying as I'm sure you find the whole ordeal, Blaine, no one's laughing at you. Your song choice, maybe, but not you."

Blaine feels something catch in his throat. "Dad," he starts, "do you—do you have a problem with me being—with me liking boys?"

From the way that his father stills at the question, Blaine knows that he's asked an uncomfortable question. "Forget it, Dad," he says. "It was stupid of me to—"

"I'll admit that it was a shock," Johnathon cuts in. "The first time I found out about your sexuality, Blaine, though, I was in a hospital waiting room, having driven for four hours to come see you, wondering whether or not I was going to see my son alive again."

The reference to Sadie Hawkins hits Blaine like a punch in the gut. Voice small and swallowing around the lump in his throat, Blaine says, "I told you about the dance _weeks_ before that, Dad."

"Yeah," Johnathon agrees easily. "I also spent those weeks thinking that _Taylor _was a girl."

"You _met _Taylor," Blaine states dumbly.

"It's a common name!" Johnathon protests, looking – dare Blaine say it – somewhat embarrassed.

Blaine can't help it; he smiles. It doesn't last long, though, and the expression drops off his face with the next question. "What about rebuilding the car?" he asks.

Getting home from the hospital to see his dad holding a pair of coveralls in one hand and a toolbox in the other had made Blaine's gut churn and every fibre in his body _itch. _When his dad had grinned, teeth perfectly white, and said, "C'mon, real men get their hands dirty," all Blaine had been able to hear was, _C'mon straight men get their hands dirty._

"Your therapist said that we should keep you busy," Johnathon answers. "To stop you from … you know, thinking about it. My father and I did the same thing one summer, so I thought we could give it a try."

That's just it, though, Blaine thinks. It hadn't felt like _giving it a try. _It had felt like some sort of new, pre-approved conversion routine.

"It felt like you were trying to make me straight," Blaine admits carefully.

Johnathon stills. "Oh." He sounds strangled. "Blaine, I want you to know that your mother and I love you and Cooper no matter what," he tells Blaine, his voice fluctuating up and down in pitch, but strong and sincere. "It's kind of how this whole parenting malarkey is supposed to work. If that means loving a you that serenades guys in clothing stores, then that's what we'll do."

"So it doesn't—bother you?"

Johnathon smiles. "No," he answers resolutely. "Not even a little bit."

Blaine inhales through his nose. "We should do this more often," he says, rubbing the fabric of his shirt between his fingers. "Talking about stuff."

Johnathon laughs. "That sounds like a plan," he agrees. "Now do you want to come downstairs? Your mother bought _tarte tatin_ for dessert."

As his father moves to leave, Blaine pauses on the bed. "At the party last week," he says. "Someone offered me a record deal. That's what I'm so messed up about."

Johnathon pauses on his feet. "Okay," he says. It's not the reaction Blaine is expecting.

Blaine pushes further. "I didn't say no."

"Okay."

"I want to take it."

Blaine's dad ruffles his hair. "Okay."

And that's that.

* * *

_"Look, Mr St. James, was it?" Blaine says, unable to keep his eyes from flickering over to his parents. "I'm—not sure what you mean."_

_Jesse digs in his suit jacket and retrieves a shiny business card. "I'm talent scouting you," he explains as he hands it over. "I want to get you a record deal."_

_Blaine looks down at the business card. _Jesse St. James, _he reads. _Talent Scout, Deadbeat Records. _Blaine's never heard of them._

_"We're a pretty new company," Jesse answers Blaine's unasked question. "But we have a lot of capital and a lot of resources."_

_Blaine feels something lodge itself in his throat. "Why?" he chokes out. "Why me?"_

_Jesse shrugs. "I see a lot of myself in you," he says, "and I think that you're really it."_

_"Really what?"_

_"The real deal," Jesse says, shrugging again. "So what do you say?"_

_Blaine looks over once more to his parents, chatting harmlessly with some potential investors/clients/country club friends. "I'll—" he breaks off. "I'll think about it."_

_Jesse grins. "That's not a no."_

_"It's not a yes," Blaine replies._

_Jesse's grin spreads wider. "Oh, but it's not a no."_

_"No," Blaine agrees. "It's not."_


End file.
